


Origins

by DarthAnimus



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Dragon Age AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-11 14:05:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2071131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthAnimus/pseuds/DarthAnimus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Free Marches do not have much in the way of a local Grey Warden Order, which proves to be problematic when the darkspawn start showing signs of rising up again. Fortunately the Free Marches are also just the place to gather a band of assorted misfits and exceptional individuals to combat the threat of the darkspawn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Apostate

**Author's Note:**

> This is a response to a RotG Kink Meme Prompt: http://rotg-kink.dreamwidth.org/3036.html?thread=6900188
> 
> The request was basically for any type of Dragon Age AU with these characters. I'm a huge fan of both, so I accepted the challenge.

_9:23 - 9:34 Dragon_

 

Jack Overland had made several misjudgements in his life. It could even be said that his life so far was rife with them. But everything following the blooming of his magical talent seemed to have been _nothing_ but one bad decision after another.

Jack was born in the alienage of the city of Tantervale, by the Minanter River in the Free Marches. Jack was born an elf, and that was one of the few things in his life he’s never had misconceptions about. To the main population of his home city, Jack would always be meaningless, invisible. That is, when he wasn’t faced with _shemlen_ prejudices, which led to treatment tinged with distrust or downright hate for the species he was born.

Truly, Jack had grown up in an environment that had tried to stomp any spirit out of him, that tried to make him believe himself not worth attention. But Jack had always had enough spirit to spare. Enough spirit to get him into all sorts of trouble, Jack’s mother would say. Even if so, Jack had found it within himself to find the things in life worth enjoying, and always tried to do the same for the other children in the alienage.

That was when Jack had found out he had magic in him. Through his early years of life, Jack had always fought to find joy in his average life among average people while being average himself. The discovery of his magic had showed Jack just how mistaken he had been about his very self, how very much _not_ average he was.

The first signs of magic in Jack came out during winter games in the alienage. He’d been playing in the thin layer of snow with the other elven children and hoped for some proper snow, like during winter. And then the amount of snow had increased like magic.

Summoning cold, snow and ice was the first magic Jack learned, but not the last. Still, as a child who’d barely heard of mages before, leave alone seeing one (there was no Circle of the Magi in Tantervale), Jack hadn’t been able to grasp the depths of his power. So Jack had thought ice magic was his unique power and that he couldn’t do more. That was a misconception that would be corrected a couple of years down the line.

Another misjudgement Jack made was thinking himself invincible thanks to his magic. A yet another one was thinking that because he was so beneath the _shems’_ notice, they would be the least of his worries when it came to practising his magic in the safety of the alienage. As it is with misjudgements, both of Jack’s assumptions turned out wrong when one day a group of templars marched right into the alienage, looking for Jack, alerted by some _shem_ who’d perhaps been a bit too interested in a group of children playing on a hot summer afternoon.

Maybe Jack had made a mistake using his ice powers in the summer. But, really, the _shemlen_ had never noticed him before and he knew his elven kin wouldn’t turn him in to a human organization. But simply because Jack had not considered it a possibility didn’t stop the templars from finding out that there was a mage in the Tantervale alienage.

There was really nothing that could have been done. Jack’s family had protested, his sister’s voice being the loudest, but they’d been forced into silence with the reminder that the city guard would be there in moments if a fight broke out, even if the three templars were outnumbered in the alienage. Besides, one of the templars had spoken in a manner that was probably meant to sound reassuring, Jack would be comfortable in the Circle in Starkhaven; it was a much better place for a child mage than Kirkwall.

Jack’s family had cried when they’d said their goodbyes. Jack had felt like crying too, but his eyes didn’t do more than grow moist. The boy had forced a calm upon himself the moment he’d realized what the flaming sword symbol on the men’s armor meant. He wouldn’t bring his family trouble from the Chantry or its watchdogs. How the detachment from his surging feelings had surprised Jack, and the boy wondered if perhaps his power over cold could temporarily freeze his heart like he’d frozen the ground for the other children to skate on only a day before.

The templars were intimidating in their heavy armor, but they seemed kind enough under it. They’d asked Jack if there was anything he wanted to take along before they left and not one of them treated Jack roughly when they guided him out of the alienage and the city.

That day was the first time Jack had ever seen a templar up close. The three templars were all wearing heavy, concealing armor and their helmets hid their faces from sight. Jack had been a naïve child then, and when he had seen the three templars moving in unison, built similarly and wearing matching armor Jack had thought that templars were some sort of built constructs that were all the same. Needless to say, Jack had learned how wrong he was about that assumption the very same evening when the templars and Jack had stopped to rest and the armored warriors had taken their helmets off to reveal very different faces.

Jack would learn a great deal about templars on his journey to the Circle of Magi in Starkhaven, and even more once he got there. When Jack had noticed the softness in the templars’ personalities, he’d entertained some thoughts about escaping, maybe even running back home to his family, even if only to stay goodbye properly before he vanished into the wilderness. However, the first thing Jack learned after the fact that templars were individuals was that templars were also very disciplined, always having someone on watch during the times they stopped for rest on the long journey from Tantervale to Starkhaven. There would be no chances of escape on that trip.

At the Starkhaven Circle, once the long journey, shortened greatly by them travelling part of the way by river, was over, Jack learned more. He learned that while the templars who were sent to ease the transition of becoming mages for children might have had soft and cushy centers, the templars at the Circle were often hardened and as cold as the whitest ice Jack could conjure. The Circle templars were stifling and the years Jack spent as an apprentice at the Circle were mostly unpleasant due to having to constantly avoid the individuals who were aggressive rather than the more easily handled detached wardens of the gilded cage.

Between the systematic denial of his personal freedom, worse than anything he’d encountered for being an elf back in Tantervale, and the harsh words and strict demands of his teachers, it was really no wonder that Jack wanted to get out. He had always been a free spirit, and would go to great lengths to make sure he stayed that way.

So he’d tried to escape. The first time he didn’t get far (he didn’t even make it out of the city) and got severely scolded by the enchanters for his trouble while the templars had restricted his freedom even further until Jack seemed reasonably cowed in their eyes. Jack had always been impulsive and had misjudged the resources the templars had at their disposal.

That was when Jack found out about the phylacteries. Apparently the templars could track Jack down wherever he ran as long as they had that container of his blood. Jack decided then that he’d stop misjudging his surroundings and studied diligently any and all spells that might help him not only escape the Circle for good, but help him obtain his phylactery as well.

Jack had briefly been the target of a lot of attention after his escape attempt. But the attempt had been so weak, and Jack’s skills still so fresh, that Jack had faded back into the obscurity he’d had in the Circle before his romp through the city. No one paid the small youth (slight in frame even for an elf and easily overlooked) much mind as he read book after book in the library. His fellow mages thought he was simply trying to impress the enchanters, to escape his status as ‘that one elven apprentice, I can’t remember his name right now’. But Jack’s goals were very different from those presumed.

It was Jack’s turn to help others misjudge him. He had some literal help from the Hex of Misdirection, which helped him obtain the keys to the phylactery chamber along with some sleep spells and pick pocketing skills learned from one of the older boys in the alienage. Jack was good at moving silently, so sneaking his way to the vault was easy. Having the templar guard’s mind slip into confusion for half an hour while Jack went in and out of the chamber was even easier.

Back then Jack hadn’t thought much on the ease with which he pulled off his caper, sneaking past the befuddled guard and jumping out the nearest window and vanishing into the dark alleys of the city of Starkhaven. Of course Jack had wondered why more mages didn’t seem to do what he’d done, but he’d been more focused on disappearing, on reaching the city limits and getting past the gates before the templars realized what had happened to give it more than a single thought.

Later on Jack would learn just why it had been so easy for him to escape, and why the templars would keep attempting to track him down despite the lack of a phylactery making the chase last first for months and then for years and there were certainly more dangerous mages out there than _Jack_. But that knowledge wouldn’t come for years yet and Jack lived an oblivious life in the forests of Wildervale, enjoying his freedom and learning to live in his new home.

Jack found happiness in the wilderness. Oftentimes he missed his home but knew it too risky to return; sometimes he would even think on the Circle fondly, for there he hadn’t been alone. But then another band of templars would muscle their way into the deep woods and Jack would remember just why he disliked civilization as he froze steel boots to the ground and made armor joints stiff with a layer of frost before vanishing again.

Jack had learned a great deal of magic at the Circle of Magi, but the magic of ice and cold had been the first kind Jack learned and it continued to be the kind most comfortable to Jack. Whenever he was in danger he would instinctually make the air colder and prepare to ice something over. Jack quickly learned the ways of the templars hunting him, however, and the chase became more a game than a danger and Jack found joy even in being chased and avoiding capture.

Once again the young elf would be proven wrong over his judgement of the situation, when one day the warrior who showed up wasn’t a templar at all, but a member of a different order. That day Jack would find out the truth of his power, and would, for possibly the first time ever, yearn for complete anonymity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Dragon Age II, the Circle of Magi in Starkhaven was burned to the ground in 9:31 Dragon. Jack's escape from the Circle happens before this event, possibly in 9:27 Dragon.


	2. The Warden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Kozmotis Pitchiner became a Grey Warden.

_9:11 - 9:25 Dragon_

Kozmotis Pitchiner, even as a young child, had never much cared for human companionship. He found it difficult to forge bonds or connections to people, which was why he wasn’t overly upset when his magical powers emerged and his father, a minor noble, handed him over to the Circle of Magi. There was no sense of abandonment or longing when Kozmotis entered the Circle of Ostwick, most likely never to see his family again.

His studies into magic offered him no comfort, as he required none, but Kozmotis was a dutiful and willing pupil nonetheless. His teachers would often praise his efforts and results and while Kozmotis felt pride in his accomplishments, he didn’t feel any satisfaction over the acceptance he received from the other mages. He didn’t feel it was something he needed.

The area of research most fascinating to Kozmotis was the research on the Fade, rather than any specific School of Magic. The only downside was how scarce such research was. There wasn’t much research done on the realm of dreams that could be shaped with a thought and was inhabited by the strange creatures that ancient writings called the Maker’s First Children.

When Kozmotis exhausted the tomes dealing with the Fade itself, the knowledge-hungry young man directed his attentions to the inhabitants of the realm. And to study the spirits of the Fade, one would eventually turn their attention to the schools of Spirit and Creation.

Kozmotis took to Spirit magic with ease and the young man furthered his skills and knowledge quickly, and used his gathered knowledge to help himself master Creation magic faster. Kozmotis was able to attempt his first Summoning spells within a year of starting his studies thanks to the Spirit arts strengthening his will enough to draw the energies from the Fade with ease.

Of course, summoning Spell Wisps and the like was fine for making himself a more formidable mage, but Kozmotis had not started his studies for something as simple as mere power. Kozmotis’ real goal was something far deeper and something he would work tirelessly to reach. Above everything else in the world, Kozmotis Pitchiner wished to speak to the spirits of the Fade, and to do that, he would need to become a spirit summoner.

Summoning spirits was a greatly more complicated procedure than calling forth swarms of ethereal insects which was the highest form of simple summoning Kozmotis could learn before starting to specialize in summoning. And it was indeed far simpler to summon fade insects than it was to summon fade spirits.

Kozmotis had to face many trials before the spirits of the Fade deemed him worthy to approach. They were a suspicious lot, not trusting anything of the material world. Kozmotis entered the Fade and sought out its spirits many times in his sleep, and answered queries on his persona disguised as riddle games.

Kozmotis’ motivations for seeking out spirits weren’t exceptionally alluring to spirits of Justice or Valor. The truth of the matter was, Kozmotis simply felt more connected towards spirits than humans. Kozmotis couldn’t bring himself to grow interested in the daily goings on of the people around him, be they family or strangers. Spirits, however, were beings Kozmotis could understand; they were driven by a singular goal in their existence, the core that was their essence.

Kozmotis wasn’t seeking fame for himself or for others. He wasn’t looking to right a wrong. He was incapable of connecting with other people; therefore he could not show compassion. Most of the sprits, while as curious to ask about Kozmotis’ unchanging world as Kozmotis was about the ever-morphing Fade, wouldn’t add their power to Kozmotis’ for the simple purpose of seeking knowledge.

For Kozmotis, however, that wasn’t a simple purpose. It was the only purpose worth anything. These spirits insisted that the waking world was static simply because it couldn’t be altered at will like the Fade. But it was in a constant flux thanks to people and events outside of people. Perhaps there was more to the relationship between the realms other than their roles as each other’s opposites.

One day, when Kozmotis grew tired of the constant rejections he faced from the spirits, the man, already having reached the position of enchanter within the Circle, told the inhabitants of Fade of his thoughts. More than that, he shouted them with conviction and passion and more emotion than he’d thought himself capable of. He’d thought the spirits would argue – they enjoyed debating existential matters with Kozmotis – but they spirits of Justice, Valor and Compassion grew silent and stepped aside.

“You have such faith,” the new spirit that the others made way for had spoken. “In both the underlying order and the chaos that permeates everything, in a power that keeps the world in order.” The spirit had given Kozmotis its hand and it was the first time the spirits had allowed Kozmotis to touch them and so Kozmotis grasped the offered hand almost greedily.

“You have faith in us.” At this the gathered spirits all bowed their heads in thanks for the compliment in his regard. But the spirit of Faith, because what other spirit could it be, was still speaking: “Above all, you have faith in yourself, Kozmotis Pitchiner. I will follow you into your world, add my strength to yours, use my knowledge to further yours as you will no doubt further mine, and your faith shall guide me.”

“I accept.” How could Kozmotis not? This was all he had ever wanted and with this his work was far from over. Indeed, here was where his true research on the two realms could begin.

Of course, all great thinkers must be vilified by their time. To study the very makings of the Fade, to try to deconstruct a creation of the great Maker, was heresy of the highest order. Well, according to some of Kozmotis’ fellow enchanters it was. But, really, enchanters argued over scriptures and teachings all the time. To Kozmotis, man-set limitations should never stop the study of the world, much like how the world could never truly be stopped or controlled by man.

But Kozmotis has never understood the complex emotions that control man. Jealousy, fear and protectiveness over their religious structures were all possible reasons for how the other enchanters turned on Kozmotis. Kozmotis’ peers accused him of conversing with demons instead of spirits; they called him a maleficar and branded him a traitor while they were the ones who betrayed him.

There was also another possible reason, one that became clear to Kozmotis when the first enchanter’s declaration of the decision to have Kozmotis made tranquil was interrupted by a tall man in heavy armor storming in with a face like thunder. The first enchanter released a string of curses when the armored man spoke of something called the Right of Conscription.

Kozmotis was intelligent enough to gain a great deal of useful information from the argument that followed between the new arrival and the first enchanter, with the knight commander attempting to mediate. The new arrival was Warden Commander Lunanoff, who had approached the Circle of Magi due to being interested in recruiting Kozmotis into the Grey Wardens. Apparently Kozmotis’ talent in magic had reached some far away ears for the man to travel all the way to Ostwick personally. And apparently Kozmotis’ skill was highly regarded by the mages as well, if they’d rather destroy him than hand him over to an outside organization.

Truly, Kozmotis didn’t know nearly as much yet as he would like. Between the choice of losing both his magic and personality in the Rite of Tranquillity and being conscripted into an organization like the Grey Wardens, Kozmotis was going to pick the one that allowed him to keep his connection to the spirits. So Kozmotis had rather willingly followed the Commander of the Grey out of the Circle, even if a group like the Grey Wardens would only want him for his power rather than his intellect.

According to the Chantry, the darkspawn originated from the Fade. Therefore the creatures most likely at least had some form of connection to it. That might be worth looking into, and what better way to do so than by becoming a part of the group most familiar with the darkspawn?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are three confirmed Circles of Magi in the Free Marches, and they're in Ostwick, Starkhaven and Kirkwall. The third one will also show up.


	3. The Templar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Nicholas St. North came to leave the Templar Order, and the best friend he ever had.

_9:21 Dragon_

Nicholas St. North was a man of faith, in several ways. Nicholas was dedicated to serving the Chantry of Adraste, first as a brother and then as a templar. He also believed in the inherent goodness inside all living beings and in everyone’s right to live their life free.

If it was possible for a templar stationed at a Circle of Magi to be popular, Nicholas certainly was. He was considered earnest and kind, and the mages of the Circle appreciated it while Nicholas’ fellow templars both marvelled at it and found it compelling. It was easier to believe in the good in the world when someone was there to show you how.

To Nicholas, brightening someone else’s day was the best way to spend his. Albeit there was one person he attempted to do it more for than others, but that was mostly because this one both needed and deserved it. Nicholas’ best friend in the Order was a fellow templar with tan skin and fair hair and a dark cloud always hanging over him.

Many people gave Bunnymund a wide berth. However, this had less to do with his perpetual frowning and constant murderous glares than it did with the sharp-tipped ears on the sides of his face. An elf in the Templar Order was not an unheard of thing, elves had the right to join up if they wished to and if they shared in the faith, but such individuals would often face prejudices when they were doing nothing less than fulfilling their duty.

Nicholas was naturally overjoyed to have an elf serving the Chantry by his side; he did believe in peaceful coexistence for all, after all. In addition to Nicholas’ personal views, Bunnymund was a skilled and lethal opponent in battle, despite the slight frame and being over a head shorter than Nicholas. Several other templars didn’t share Nicholas’ sentiments, however, which was most likely the reason Bunnymund scowled so much in the first place. You couldn’t afford to be off your guard when you were being constantly watched for weakness.

Still, Nicholas was very fond of the Antivan elf, regardless his prickly manner, and was glad to consider them friends. On particularly good days, when Bunnymund’s posture would relax enough for the other man to tilt his head to the sound of Nicholas speaking, he liked to think that Bunnymund also considered them friends.

As such, Nicholas was very aware of his fellow templar’s moods, especially when they got exceptionally dark. Nicholas considered it his duty to fight back these darker moods, even if only to make life easier for everyone involved. He sometimes did wish for a smile to grace his friend’s face in gratitude, however. So far he hadn’t had much luck outside of a smirk or two.

Mostly Nicholas’ methods consisted of making the other forget his insecurities for a while and offering an alternative attitude to those of their fellows who gave Bunnymund trouble for being an elf. They were temporary fixes to a continuing problem, but when one of the people Nicholas wanted to hit upside the head for bothering his friend was his own knight commander, there was little more Nicholas could do than offer a safe haven for his friend.

The Circle library was a more literal haven, as the senior enchanter in charge of the library would not tolerate templar infighting within his realm. It was there that Nicholas found his friend when he wished for isolation, but one time the Bunnymund that Nicholas found among the shelves looked distraught. It was not like the Antivan to show such things, but the green eyes that met Nicholas’ blue ones were haunted.

“Bunnymund, you do not look well, my friend.” Nicholas slowly reached out a hand, so as not to startle the other, and laid it on a narrow shoulder (narrow for a human, Bunnymund was rather large for an elf). “Is something bothering you?”

“North,” Bunnymund greeted and then fell silent for several moments. Nicholas’ eyes fell on the heavy tome his fellow templar was clutching like a lifeline.

“Ah.” Nicholas thought he’d found a conversation starter. “The Litany of Adralla, it’s a fine meditative mantra. I hear reciting it builds up mental fortitude.”

“I’m not looking it up as a meditation tool,” Bunnymund huffed. The elf’s voice lowered and his eyes darkened. “I think there’s blood magic being practised in the Circle.”

It was Nicholas’ turn to huff. “Honestly, Bunnymund,” the man spoke, used to speaking calming words of reason. “You of all people should know better than to assume things.” He patted his friend’s arm. “Not every mage is a blood mage.”

“That’s not what-” Bunnymund started, then hissed through his teeth and interrupted himself. “Never mind. I get it.” The elf shouldered his way past Nicholas’ larger build. “Excuse me.”

“Bunnymund,” Nicholas called imploringly after his friend. “Let’s discuss this.”

“What’s the point?” Bunnymund paused in his steps, like he was reconsidering his words. Then he shook his head and turned to give Nicholas a thunderous glare. “You just keep pretending everything can be solved with words and that everyone is trustworthy.”

‘He’s too used to not having anyone,’ Nicholas had thought mournfully as he’d watched his friend leave. ‘He can’t trust anyone around himself.’

Nicholas was too used to brushing off his friend’s doubts with words. It was his usual method for dealing with the aftermath of Bunnymund butting heads with the other templars and even some of the Circle mages. Perhaps that one time he shouldn’t have been so quick to rely on such an approach. It might have saved him some grief, and a headache.

The pounding in his head would be Nicholas’ clearest memory of the day the Circle of Magi fell apart. The rest of it was mostly a mess of terror, fear and pain, something Nicholas wouldn’t think back on willingly. The Circle had been bathed in blood, even Nicholas’ previously pristine templar uniform, something he’d carefully been proud of, was now blotted with congealing and drying blood.

The Seekers of Truth had been called in to weed out not only practitioners of blood magic, but also those templars who’d been taking advantage of their abilities to increase the Order’s influence among the nobles of Kirkwall. Nicholas had heard the rumours, how Viscount Threnhold was speaking of removing the Templar Order from Kirkwall completely.

Nicholas couldn’t find it in himself to care about any of it at all. It was Knight Commander Guylian’s duty to take care of the Order and Circle from hereon out. As far as Nicholas was concerned, the lies and distrust inherent in the entire system of the Circles wasn’t worth anymore of his time. But there was someone here worth his time and Nicholas searched the hubbub of templars and Seekers for his friend.

He spotted Bunnymund in conversation with the High Seeker who’d been in charge of the raid. It seemed that Bunnymund wouldn’t be joining Nicholas anymore, especially when the High Seeker clapped the elf’s arm companionably. Bunnymund had done well, Nicholas could admit, chasing down clues and hints and uncovering the Circle’s terrible truth. He’d make a fine Seeker.

Nicholas’ musings where cut off by their object when Bunnymund bumped his arm with a fist. “Hey, North, you alright there? I know this has been especially rough on you.”

A weary sigh escaped from the taller templar. “I’m thinking an early retirement sounds good.”

“Oh.” Bunnymund’s eyebrows rose, then lowered into a scowl. “You could come with me, enter Seeker training.” The elf looked hopeful. “It’s a huge step forward to all elves who wish to serve the Chantry, and it would be much easier with you there to help me.”

It was a rare unguarded moment for Bunnymund, Nicholas knew, for him to acknowledge the support between them. But Nicholas didn’t think he could provide much support anymore.

“I’m…my faith has been shaken,” Nicholas confessed. “My faith in the system. I don’t think I could spend my time hunting down even more lies within it.”

At first Nicholas thought Bunnymund would get angry; it was the Antivan’s usual reaction to disappointment or anything that didn’t fall inside his range of control. But Bunnymund’s eyes softened and the shorter male reached out to gently touch one of Nicholas’ fists.

“Then I hope you're happy in the end,” the elf spoke.

“You too,” Nicholas mumbled into his dark beard, trying to cover up any tearful sound in what was shaping up to be a goodbye.

“You’re a good friend, Nicholas St. North,” Bunnymund said with another squeeze of Nicholas’ hand. “I’ll write you, and I won’t mind doing so.”

“Likewise, my friend.” Nicholas couldn’t help but smile when Bunnymund gave him such words of affirmation, when they must have been more than a bit uncomfortable to the introverted elf. But the Antivan answered Nicholas’ smile with one of his own, and that was a good prize, a farewell gift.

But farewell never had to mean for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figuring out how to translate Bunny's character into the Dragon Age world gave me a lot of trouble, until I read that one of the slurs humans use for elves is 'rabbit'. It was just too painfully ironic not to do.


	4. The Spirit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How does a Spirit of the Fade end up with a name like 'Sandy', anyway?

_9:28 Dragon_

Their kind were named for what they were, for what they were made of. Their names came from their shapes, or their shapes came to be to fit their names. To outsiders, such an existence was confusing, but to them and their realm, such was the way of things. Even their world didn’t stay in one shape, but changed constantly, receiving meaning and giving meaning according to those who entered it.

The difference their world had was that it wasn’t tied to a single essence, being even more in flux than its inhabitants. The world was hazy, seemingly not even there, and distances couldn’t be judged by sight. There was no way to tell if it was the distance that wasn’t really there, or if the nearness was the illusion.

The inhabitants were solid, however. They were real in all their splendor and grimness. Both the benevolent beings and the malevolent creatures were the only things in their realm that could touch visitors, and even that much they could only do if they were given a chance, if they were invited to do so. Although many of them knew how to twist almost anything into an invitation.

The symphony of words and form, of names and essence, was one of the greatest marvels of their existence. They were beings of light and darkness, either shining brightly or absorbing light from around them according to what the visitors called them: good or evil. Those who were called monsters had monstrous shapes, those who were called virtues held gallant forms.

Which came first, the name or the essence, the words or the form? Like the terrains the visitors formed of the realm (dreams, they were called dreams), could they simply not exist one without the other? Those the visitors called demons were exactly that, those who were called spirits were something else. And they were something else in almost every way.

The demons wished to be like the visitors, to leave, to take the visitors’ bodies for their own if they could. They could stay on the other side more surely if they had a focal point. The spirits were of a different mind. Their kind wasn’t sent back when they crossed over. They crossed over so rarely. What could the other world hold for them, if it was so alluring to those who were to be their opposites?

Unlike demons, who played word games, tricked and lied to gain every advantage, the spirits were more generous. They willingly offered their power to the visitors, to make sure they wouldn’t be pulled over completely. A magical boost to a mage (yes, that was what the visitors called themselves), and in return they’d get brief glimpses of the place their power went to. And that glimpse was all most of them cared for.

They were the many, but there was also a singular. A singular who didn’t have much shape or form or anything of the sort, as even visitors were mere stories to the Spirit, much like the world they visited from. And yet the Spirit was so very curious; the Spirit could have such traits possibly because the Spirit hadn’t been locked into place by words and names. The Spirit was curious and excitable and when the Spirit knew that the two worlds had been connected (“The Veil was torn,” a Spirit of Justice had said with outrage, “this wrong needs to be righted.”), the Spirit didn’t hesitate to use the pathway to cross over and see what lied on the other side. the Spirit would be the visitor this time around.

There was a lot of fire. Fire and screams were the things that the demons spread whenever they got past the Veil. Here there was only fire but no screams. In their place, there was the kind of stifled silence that follows a lot of screaming.

There was something else in the place the Spirit arrived in besides the fire and silence. It felt like a beacon, something calling out to the Spirit. There was something there that touched the Spirit’s core. And so the Spirit followed the sensation, until the Spirit found a being that was similar to the visitors, but wasn’t quite one of them. The being was like a mage, but lacking something.

The people on this side knew the names of those from the Spirit’s side, or they gave them names. The Spirit slid closer to the slumped form, seemingly so small even when it was much larger than the Spirit was. What am I, the Spirit wanted to ask. What is my name? What am I made of?

The other being lifted a head, eyes meeting the Spirit’s gaze. The Spirit didn’t have a tongue to speak with; the Spirit’s body wasn’t of this realm, the Spirit wasn’t _real_ enough here. Despite this, the other seemed to have heard the question, and it appeared the being could see the Spirit too.

“Wow,” the solid being said as their eyes widened. “You don’t look like any demon I’ve ever seen.”

The Spirit wished to communicate with words, but that was something you needed a body for. No wonder demons so coveted the bodies of these waking creatures.

“Not a demon, but a spirit then?” The other rubbed a chin, giving the Spirit a considering look. “Never seen one of those period, so I suppose you could be one. Do you have a name?”

That’s your job, the Spirit wanted to say. You’re supposed to tell me what I’m made of.

“Made of?” It was almost like the other could hear the Spirit, maybe they could, through the connection that had drawn the Spirit here to begin with. “Frankly, you look like you’re made of sand. You look sandy.”

The magic of words went deeper than simply separating them into demons and spirits. All of the beings were named for their essence, one that had a word the visitors attributed to it. Demons of Sloth were slow and lazy like their name, Demons of Desire would wheedle and coax with the sort of empty promises that all wish to hear and Demons of Pride held themselves over others and convinced their prey to do the same until they could strike at an overconfident fool.

It was the same way with spirits; each of them held an essence that gave them their name. Spirits of Faith valued trust in others or a greater power and were more willing to leap into the unknown than others, Spirits of Valor would fight and test their mettle and thought all should do the same, and Spirits of Compassion held pity and mercy over everything else, often granting assistance to visitors who seemed particularly lost or kind-hearted.

The Spirit’s people were named for what they were of. If spirits of the essence of justice were named ‘Justice’ and demons of pride were called just that, then it made sense for the Spirit, who was made of sand, to be named Sandy. So the Spirit, Sandy, accepted the name gratefully, grabbing the other being’s hand in an enthusiastic shake.

“Whoa, easy there!” The other almost tipped over and Sandy used his kind-of-but-not-really-there arms to keep them sitting upright. “Sorry, I just got through clearing this place of demons, so I’m a bit woozy.”

Sandy petted the other comfortingly. The spirit thought the other might have been male, as far as Sandy knew how waking creatures worked. Sandy couldn’t feel the breach he’d used to cross over. Most likely this male was in charge of mending the tear in the Veil.

“Just, don’t treat me roughly, okay?”

Sandy nodded, more to himself than the other. He thought he might be male too, and he also thought that the waking being needed his own kind to care for his wounds. Sandy would deliver him to that help.

“That’s not necessary,” the man spoke and Sandy was very convinced the other _could_ understand him on some rudimentary level. “Just make sure no wild creatures come gnawing on me while I rest? That would be good.”

Sandy shook his head. Absolutely not! They were now comrades, allies, and Sandy would take care of his new friend. So he lifted the other’s body into his arms and began carrying them both through the ruins of a small village. Sandy had seen plenty of dreams shaped like villages. Mages liked dreaming about small villages. Those dream villages were rarely on fire, however.

“Fine, okay, _fine_!” the man snapped irritably and slumped in Sandy’s grasp. “Just…just don’t drop me.”

This was going quite nicely, Sandy decided. They were already shaping up to be good friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bit on the difficult side, because the style is so much different than the other ones. I figured that spirits of the Fade don't have need to pick a gender while they're in the Fade, so I had to make sure not to refer to Sandy by 'him' before he consciously decided to be 'male'. I almost wrote this in first person because of that, but I figured that would have made the stylistic difference too noticeable.


	5. The Dalish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toothiana was never like the other Dalish.

_9:33 Dragon_

Toothiana was many things. She was a warrior. She was an elf. She was Dalish. She was strong. She was proud. She was in touch with the Beyond in a way that allowed her to do magic like her clan Keeper. What Toothiana wasn’t, however, was more important than what she was. And what she wasn’t, was fit to be Keeper.

She was too proud. She was too young. She was too impulsive. She didn’t understand the teachings that went into the control of the forest and trees. She was too comfortable with wielding a sword to ever lead their clan with tempered wisdom.

Toothiana supposed anyone would appear impatient and impulsive when compared with Keeper Gisharel, but Gisharel was in the twilight years of his life and the closest thing to a scholar the _elvhen_ had. Gisharel had spent most of his long life gathering and writing down any information he could find on the Elvhenan culture.

During the last _arlathvhen_ , the Keeper of another Dalish clan had passed on to Gisharel information on an ancient, by now completely forgotten, art of combat. It was a battle style that combined magical and physical prowess for the sole purpose of combat. It wasn’t the kind of magic any keeper could practise but, after the Dalish gathering was over, Gisharel taught what he had learned to Toothiana. He believed this sort of magic would suit the young woman’s wild soul better than any keeper arts she could be taught.

There were many legends and assumptions about what the _elvhen_ culture was before the fall of Arlathan. The now-lost longevity of the _elvhen_ was one such assumption, as was the legend that all _elvhen_ had the gift of magic in the days of the Elvhenan. Toothiana assumed that, if magical talent had been common back then, then the Elvhenan armies had probably had a lot of arcane warriors in their ranks. Nowadays such an art had been completely forgotten, however, and Toothiana considered this both a shame and an advantage. None of the enemies of the _elvhen_ would expect a swordwoman to be capable of attacking with magic as well.

A regular sword wasn’t fit to channel magical energies, however. The use of magic required a proper conduit to direct the magic’s flow. It wasn’t the material it was grafted from that determined the conduit’s usefulness, but the grafted item’s ability to contain magic. This ability was determined by the magic inherent in the item. If the item itself wasn’t magical, it wouldn’t be able to handle having magic flowing through it.

The ability to move magic into wood was much simpler than into metal. Wood could have magical symbols carved on it, arcane sigils meant to balance the flow of mystical energies. These markings could be very intricate and as such were often too difficult to craft onto metal items. As such, Toothiana was rather frustrated with how badly her gladius sword reacted to her entropy magic. It was a regular sword, after all, not made for spellcasting at all.

Still Toothiana wouldn’t go back into using a staff carved out of wood. While wooden staves could easily be made capable of containing magic, they weren’t as effective in close-quarters combat as swords were. And Toothiana’s sword fighting skills were so honed that it would have been a shame to disregard them in favor of relying entirely on magic. Even with her magical abilities diminished with the lack of a proper tool for spellcasting, Toothiana was still one of the most formidable fighters in the Ralaferin Clan because of her training in the ancient art of the arcane warrior. She wouldn’t give that advantage up.

Toothiana hoped that practise would help her incorporate her magic with her physical fighting techniques better. As such, she often wandered away from the camp to practise her art in peace. The forest became very familiar to her during her practise runs, so when someone new entered the woods, Toothiana could immediately tell and be on her guard.

Quickly climbing into a nearby tree, Toothiana used her clan scout’s vision to steal a peek at the intruder. It was a _shemlen_ , a human man. At first Toothiana thought he was one of those templars scouting for their ‘illegal mages’, but those wore completely different uniforms. The templar uniform was made of silvery metal and deep red fabric, this person wore light chainmail checkered in deep grey and blue. There was a darker blue robe over the man’s shoulders, marking him as a mage. A Grey Warden mage.

Toothiana couldn’t even remember the last time she’d seen a Grey Warden; when they did come to Dalish lands, they usually travelled in groups and were simply on their way to someplace else. This one was by himself, however, and glancing around like he was looking for something. Toothiana knew that many clans instructed their scouts to assist Wardens with information on the terrain if they required it to pass on, both out of respect for the ancient pact between the clans and the Order as well as out of the desire to get outsiders off their lands as soon as possible.

“Hey!” Toothiana raised her voice to catch the man’s attention. “Grey Warden!” She jumped out of her tree when the human turned to face her. She took the chance to take in his appearance now that they were face-to-face. The man had pale skin that spoke of years spent indoors and, as he walked closer, Toothiana noticed that he had eyes that glinted like metal. His face held the markings of a life of conflict and the frown on the man’s face served only to deepen the etches on his forehead.

“I did not realize I had entered Dalish lands,” the Warden spoke and he had a quiet, pleasant and polite voice. “Forgive me my trespass.”

“The Dalish aren’t so separated from the world that we wouldn’t recognize a Grey Warden,” Toothiana said with a smile. “ _Andaran atish’an_. You can enter these lands without fear, Warden.”

“I have a name other than my title,” the Warden spoke primly. “It is Kozmotis Pitchiner.”

“Toothiana.” The elf smiled at the formal Warden. “What brings you into these woods, Warden Pitchiner?”

“We’ve received several reports of darkspawn activity around these parts,” Pitchiner explained. “Enough that it worries the First Warden, so they decided to send someone to measure the situation.”

“Is it the time of the _Banalhan_?” Toothiana queried, feeling a worry creep in. “My clan thought it was contained in Ferelden.”

“That is what happened,” the Warden answered, although now his voice was more hesitant than before. “The shortest Blight in history, if that is what you are asking about.”

“Yes.” Toothiana was rather surprised that the human knew the elven word, and she was also curious about the information the man was clearly hiding. But, Toothiana knew that the Grey Wardens liked to keep their information to themselves, much like the Dalish. “Are you searching for anything in particular? I know this area quite well.”

Pitchiner’s frown deepened for a moment, before the man decided to accept Toothiana’s assistance. “I’m searching for possible lairs the darkspawn might be using. They prefer to stay underground.” That would explain why the Warden had been looking so lost when Toothiana happened upon him; there weren’t many entrances underground around these woods.

“There is an ancient Tevinter ruin further West,” Toothiana said, all the while considering her options. “The main levels are underground.”

“That would work,” Pitchiner conceded with a nod. “Are there any landmarks that could guide me there?”

“I could guide you there,” Toothiana offered, having made up her mind. “The Keeper has forbidden us from entering, since he suspects the ruins might have darkspawn or undead wandering inside them. But if I bring a Grey Warden with me, I might get a chance to look up any meaningful artefacts.”

“You are speaking of an arrangement of mutual benefit.” Pitchiner rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment before conceding: “I don’t see any reason to deny your request. Let us be off.”

It was supposed to be simple reconnaissance for them both, a chance to find elvhen artefacts for Toothiana and a possible clue about the darkspawn for Pitchiner. What they ended up finding was something so frightening that it was clear to Toothiana that she could not return to her own clan and to her normal life with a good conscience.

Hearing a darkspawn, a creature that was supposed to have no independent thoughts, threaten Toothiana and her Warden companion to turn back and forget what they’d seen had left Toothiana shaken. In the end, Toothiana left the Dalish lands beside the Grey Warden. Their mission was clear but far from simple. They needed to find out how the darkspawn were learning to talk and to put a stop to a possible invasion of self-aware darkspawn.


	6. The Rogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just what did North get up to after leaving the Order? The guy who makes it all work certainly knows.

_9:22-9:33 Dragon_

Phil’s business arrangement with one Nicholas St. North worked far better than the dwarf could ever have imagined a business relationship working with a human. There were several reasons for this.

For one, North actually gave Phil and the rest of his band what was the closest thing to an honest job a casteless dwarf could have. Back in Orzammar the only option someone like Phil had in terms of work was to work for the Carta, and Phil had never taken pleasure in bullying the little guy when the ones he really wanted to get at were the noble caste.

When Phil had worked up the courage to leave Orzammar, several other casteless dwarves had gained the confidence they needed to take off as well. And while at first getting used to life on the surface had been hard, it did all end up working out reasonably well in the long run.

Nicholas St. North had been only a starting entrepreneur and there weren’t many people who would consider working with him either. Apparently North had at one point been something called a ‘Templar’, which were something akin to law enforcement for the surfacers, and therefore most scoundrels avoided any job offers from someone who could have just been working to get them caught red-handed.

Phil and the dwarves who’d followed were casteless, branded with a mark that made them untouchable to possible employers. North, meanwhile, was avoided by possible employees due to his previous profession. Their needs aligned and so, in a tavern in the large city of Starkhaven, a pact was made.

So far neither side had regretted the arrangement. The dwarves, regardless of what the stigma of being casteless said, were hard workers, and North was an honest and upfront employer. Sometimes Phil thought the human was possibly a bit too soft-hearted since, when Phil had asked why North had never looked cross at their brands, North had told Phil that since the Chantry (the human religious system that Phil really didn’t understand) was always willing to give people of all sorts a second chance, he should, as a man of faith, do the same.

Weird surface religious practises aside (what was so special about this Maker anyway? It wasn’t like he’d invented things that made life easier for anyone like Paragons did), Phil found he could relate to his new friend on several levels. The most prominent thing that made North a very good dwarf for a surfacer was that the man could drink mead with the best of them. Phil and North held several drinking contests between the two of them while they were travelling together learning the skills they needed.

Another thing about North that made him less foreign to Phil was that he had a very respectable beard on him. The man was tall, even for a human, but he was also broad and generally didn’t look that much different from a dwarf. North had a natural gift for building, not much different from Phil’s own intuitive understanding of the work of a smith. The dwarf had observed several surface smiths at their craft, and could duplicate their efforts with even better results with ease.

Of course, this meant that Phil didn’t have the usual dwarven skills for crafting armor and heavy weapons, but rather he was quite skilled at making swords and all other sorts of weaponry that surface smiths preferred to work on. It was a talent that became very handy when he and North armed their band of thieves.

Because that had been the end goal from the start when North had recruited Phil: to form the most well-armed and skilled group of bandits in the Free Marches. Although his desire to avoid a life of crime had been the reason he’d left Orzammar, Phil hadn’t been able to refuse North’s offer when the man had gone on a passionate tirade about putting nobility and other people of note in their place. The human society didn’t have castes like the dwarves, but it was still built upon a system where the rich and powerful trampled on those with less social standing.

North especially seemed to have a bone to pick with the Templar Order that he had used to serve, and the fulfilment of this grudge seemed to be the man’s end goal. Frankly, Phil was more interested in humiliating some nobles on their way to that goal.

It was a lot of fun, robbing and stealing and fighting. It was illegal, sure, but really, Phil didn’t really feel guilty about bringing some trouble to nobles who lived off of making trouble for others. North was especially good at picking targets who deserved to be taken down a peg. It was a roguish way of life, and it was enjoyable until it came time to settle down.

In their case settling down meant taking their ill-gained wealth and using it to build a fortress in the unoccupied wilderness. Functionally it was more of a village that happened to have impressive battlements around it. Said village truly gained life after they managed to establish trade routes to and from their new hub.

In the Free Marches, City States having their own autonomous rule was the standard. However, even this small, albeit growing, city had its own laws separate from any of the surrounding cities. Phil helped North put together the basis of their law, and his dwarven brethren would help them uphold said law. It was when the laws had been written down that Phil came to see how this construct became North’s triumph over the system that had let him down; there were no Templars allowed within the city walls.

Of course there was a great deal of political questionability over such legislature. The Templar Order formed the human Chantry’s primary enforcers and banning them from the city meant that the Chantry held no power over the settlement. However, the size of the city was still so small that it wasn’t a timely concern, and any queries North did receive from the Chantry were brushed off with the explanation that the city population was mostly made up of dwarves and it would be insensitive to ignore the dwarves’ religious leanings and only support human religion.

It was very polite and sensitive, and made for a politically aware argument. It just happened to be a complete lie as far as North’s motivations went and North and Phil laughed over this as they celebrated with fine mead for the whole week after Stantoff Claussen had been fully established.

Having a secure base of operations meant that it became harder to practise their more illegal profession, if they wished to avoid identification that is. They didn’t want to give any nobles reason to send an army of soldiers to their small town. So North, Phil and the dwarves started to devote more of their time for their craftsmanship, and the crafts business was going exceptionally well. Business was so good, in fact, that North would sometimes bend over his maps of the Marches in his office, wondering if there was some sort unrest going on in any of the regions.

North worried about people; even at his most embittered when he had first met Phil he had been so considerate that Phil had wanted to yank at his dark beard to make sure it wasn’t just a façade. But, North was genuinely a kind guy, so Phil took it upon himself to be the practical one. It was a tireless job, but the rewards of their partnership made it worth it. He had never felt like a more respectable dwarf than when he was making weapons in Stantoff Claussen’s smithy.

Another positive part about having a set base of operations was that North could finally have his letters delivered directly to himself instead of having to pick them up from pre-determined locations. And North was always very excited about the letters that came from abroad. The latest one had the man breaking out the fine quality mead in celebration. While Phil wasn’t one to complain about getting good ale, he did wonder what had brought it on.

“It’s a letter from Bunnymund!” North explained, waving excitedly with his full mug of mead, almost spilling (but not quite; North was good at handling mead). “Says he has a new assignment, here, in the Free Marches. He will be here after the turn of the year.”

Phil had of course heard about Bunnymund. North liked to talk about things he liked, and his former Templar comrade was quite high on that list. Phil grunted in approval as he took a swig out of his own frothy mug. “Tell ‘im to bring some foreign ale with ‘im.”

“He’s in Antiva, learning some new techniques he says.” North smirked at him over his mug. “I didn’t know you were fond of Antivan wine.”

“Ugh.” Phil hated all wines; North knew that. “Forget about it.”

North laughed and drank his entire mug down in a few swallows. Excitable and a tad too open-hearted he might be, but North truly could drink like the best of dwarves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to physically stop myself from writing North's verbal tic (because the world of Dragon Age probably doesn't have North's or Bunny's verbal tics argh). Also, Phil is the only member of the cast glorious enough to deserve dwarfdom (why yes that is my favorite fantasy race how did you know~).


	7. The Seeker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aster jumps the gun on a case and ends up fighting demons.

_9:28 Dragon_

The air was dank and cold, and filled with smells that would have made Aster's stomach churn if he wasn't so used to them. Aster doubted he'd ever get desensitized to the horrors Blood Mages could wreak, but at least he had developed a strong enough stomach to not immediately throw up at the combined smell of rotting flesh and eggs. That had happened the first time he'd seen an Abomination, as a young Templar working for the Order. North had been the one to yank him back on his feet before the beast could attack.

Now, however, there was no North to keep him focused and centered. All of Aster's discipline was something he achieved on his own. Still, despite meditation and his best efforts, Blood Mages were still the one thing that made Aster's blood boil.

This especially held true for Blood Mages like the one that was controlling the village Aster had been sent to scout out. There had been many reports of children going missing from the nearby settlements, but nothing from this town. This had been deemed suspicious enough to send an agent to investigate.

It was supposed to be a recon mission. Reinforcements would be coming at dawn. Aster was only supposed to check the village for any suspicious activity. All of his superiors' intentions flew straight out of Aster's mind, however, when his investigation brought him sneaking around the only larger compound in the sad excuse of a town.

Aster had heard them.

Children. Children crying, screaming in fear and pain. The sickening wet sounds of flesh lurching and roiling as it was warped by something demonic. Something inside Aster snapped then, the calm, analytic part of his mind turning itself off to make room for the rage.

It wasn't the all-consuming rage of a berserker; Aster had seen plenty of those on his travels for the Seekers of Truth. Aster's own brand of rage turned off the part of him that felt regret, remorse or mercy. It helped him see the points to attack, the weak spots to go for, to cause the most pain or the most certain death according to what he wished or needed.

Aster preferred not to speak of it with others, that killing intent. It wasn't only because Aster was extremely private and tended to dislike his peers on principle. Most of the people Aster worked with knew his country of origin. There were enough rumors about his possible former profession without Aster _admitting_ that his speciality was efficient killing.

While the presence of such an awareness was awkward, it did come in handy when Aster got struck with the killing urge. He knew exactly where to drive his blade in an Abomination to make the creature fall apart, its malformed flesh unable to stay together and its blood splattering around. It was only after every single one of the monstrosities laid dead at his feet that his directed his attention to other things.

The three Abominations Aster had killed had most likely been placed there to watch the entrance, because there was nothing else of note in the main hall Aster had rushed into. The sounds he'd heard had come from deeper inside the house. Knowing well that Blood Mages required space for both their conjurations as well as their own sense of dramatics, Aster immediately headed for the large doors that would undoubtedly lead into a dining room that was in use for something else entirely than hosting dinner parties.

Kicking the doors open, Aster made as much of a dramatic entrance as he could muster, intent on disrupting any dark ritual the mage might have been conducting. With practised ease, Aster's eyes sought out and recognized a summoning circle carved into the great dining table, on top of which the mage had placed a tied up child, whose face was a mask of terror, although the boy's screams had paused in his surprise. There were more immobilized children lining up the back wall, five in total.

There were no Abominations in the room; the mage wouldn't let the creatures close to himself when he was concentrating on his spellwork. That meant there was only the mage for Aster to contend with.

"I serve the Seekers of Truth, the Divine herself," Aster spoke out, making sure his grip on his weapons was secure. "Stand down, mage, or face the consequences."

"I'd prefer it if _you_ stood down, Seeker," the mage spoke. He was a tall man, face grim and dark hair cropped short. His dark robes were covered in magical sigils, to increase the potency of his magic, and Aster could feel the effect when he sensed the man's oily mind trying to grasp at his thoughts.

The mage wasn't the only one wearing a customized outfit, however. Aster rotated his left wrist, turning the gauntlet around. There was a slot set into the leather and light metal, perfect for sliding a card in. The words, with both a physical and vocal form, would protect Aster from the mage's attempts to control him.

The words were familiar to Aster as he recited them; he often read them to himself to calm his mind. The Tevene language by itself wasn't comforting, but these words held power. The Litany of Adralla would not let him down.

"Stop resisting," the mage growled, gritting his teeth in frustration.

Aster gave the man a smirk. The pressure on his mind eased and the Seeker made to rush forward. Only, in the next moment he felt his insides begin to burn and stumbled. Aster fought to breathe as the blood mage turned his own blood against him. There were more words, the words of a spell, and running steps. Not about to let his quarry escape, Aster forced himself to stand up and saw an Abomination in place of the boy from before, creeping towards the other children.

Running as quickly as his shaky legs could carry him, Aster readied his blade and felled the monster with a single strike to the back into a weak spot. The still-writing mass of flesh slumped into the floor, the fleshy sound accompanied by the soft crying of the group of children.

"Hush, now, kids," Aster mumbled softly as he knelt down to free the children. "It's over now."

"The bad man got away," a little girl said with a hiccup. "What if he comes again?"

"He won't touch you again," Aster promised darkly. He stood up and regarded the kids. They all seemed to be in reasonably good shape, not injured or starved. They could most likely escape on their own. "Head outside of town. There will be more people dressed like me soon. They'll keep you safe."

"And you'll take care of the bad man?" the girl asked, eyes wide.

"Yup." Aster reached into his satchel, picking out a bright green concoction. "I'll take care of 'im."

Aster had no intention of leaving the house. He'd thought the village was strangely quiet even for nighttime, but now he understood. The Blood Mage had allowed all of the inhabitants of the village to be either possessed or killed before starting to kidnap victims for his rituals from outside the village. With that much demonic activity, there was bound to be a tear in the Veil somewhere. The most likely option was inside the house.

The children would be safe as long as they headed in the opposite direction. Aster himself hurried through the house to the second floor. There was no need to be sneaky; the mage surely knew Aster would keep coming for him.

As soon as he got to the second floor, Aster could sense the fractured magic in the air. He had to go through another set of double doors to reach the tear and came into a library. The mage whirled around, snarling: "Can't you leave me alone?"

"You're kidding, right?" Aster took a running step and the mage lifted his arms to summon lesser demons to aid him. It was easy to do this close to the tear. Aster kept one of his twin swords lowered and used the other to cut through the demons. They weren't built to last and the blade in Aster's left hand was meant for the mage alone.

It took Aster moments to reach the mage and he quickly swiped his sword across the mage's side. The mage immediately screamed from the burn of the poison, the most potent one Aster carried with him. The mage fell to the floor and Aster purposefully prodded the man's injured side with the tip of his boot.

"Now, then, Blood Mage," the Seeker spoke slowly and lowly. "Unless you want to die a slow and painful death from that venom, I suggest you fix that tear right now."

It didn't take any more convincing than that. The Blood Mage was more than willing to perform the magic to fix the tear. The tear began to mend, but at the last moments of it remaining open, a Rage Demon stormed through. Aster barely avoided getting run over by the demon, who tore down the halls, setting fire to everything it touched.

"Damn it!" Aster snarled, preparing to go after the demon.

"Wait!" The Blood Mage was now hanging on Aster's arm. "You have to give me the antidote! I fixed the Tear, like you wanted."

Aster gave the mage a sideways look, and then slashed the mage's throat. The mage was dead before he hit the ground in a limp and bloody heap.

"I said you wouldn't die slowly, child-killer," Aster hissed before he turned around and rushed after the demon. He had to kill it before it burnt down the whole village or, worse yet, reached the children.

The shock to his body from the mage's attack from before was gone now, and Aster had no trouble running and leaping the stairs to chase the demon into the village. It was easy to track down, judging from the trail of burning houses it left behind. 

Aster found the demon meandering around the houses, smashing them apart and setting fire to the pieces that came off. It was clearly disoriented, having escaped from the Fade on its own with no mage summoning it and giving it instructions. It would assert itself in time, but Aster wasn’t about to give it that time. Aster rushed the demon and stabbed it on the back.

He didn’t think the poison on his blade would damage the monster, but it would fall from his blows eventually. Aster flipped his blades, dodging a swipe of burning hot claws and got close to the demon, sweeping his blades to the sides, slicing through the creature’s neck. The head rolled off and the demonic form collapsed like a wave hitting rocks, falling apart into ash and cinder.

That better have been the last of them, Aster mused as all of the fighting he’d done that night finally caught up with him. The Seeker slumped down, sitting on the street trying to catch his breath and gather his strength. He was just so very exhausted.

The village around him was still in flames, but the fires were small and in the cold night they’d stutter out soon enough. A golden light shimmered and Aster smiled at the thought of morning. It would be the first day in a while the children in the area wouldn’t need to be scared. There was one less thing out to threaten their innocence.

_What is my name? What am I made of?_

Suddenly, Aster became aware of the fact that night hadn’t lasted nearly long enough for it to be morning. The light shining to the side of his face was something other than the sun. Aster turned his head and blinked his eyes to clear them, to make sure his exhausted mind wasn’t making things up.

“Wow,” Aster said to the human-shaped form made entirely of flecks of light. “You don’t look like any demon I’ve ever seen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aster would like it to be known that just because he's a Rogue with the Assassin Specialization doesn't mean he's an Antivan Crow.


End file.
